Fallen
by gracerising
Summary: John crosses a desperate line in an attempt to draw out Sherlock, whom he believes to be in hiding.
1. Chapter 1

The doubt filled him suddenly and ruthlessly. He loosened his grip from her neck and his fingers cramped. He rose up on his knees and stared down at her. Her horror-stricken face was finally still, the muscles relaxed into a slacken gape. All his careful, methodical planning was brought to a halt and his decisions demanded to be questioned.

_Oh god. _

_God, what have I done?_

He shrank away from her, cupped his hands over his eyes and began to shake. He stayed there, rocking back and forth as if he were lulling a child to sleep, silently screaming out bits of the torment that threatened to consume him. He'd kept it bound up beneath the surface for too long and it was fighting and clawing its way out. He shook as if the demons were ripping the flesh from his bones.

No one came. No one moved him from this place. No one stopped him from breaking down beside her.

Though it seemed he was there for what must have been hours the upheaval did come to an end. It faded away and he sank into a blessed numbness for the first time in a very long time.

Maybe the man in the coat was an illusion. Maybe this was his madness. Maybe his friend was actually gone. Maybe he was really, really gone.

But that wasn't the truth, was it?

He peaked out at her from between cracks in his fingers.

_Get ahold of yourself, John. We have to finish this. Do what you set out to do. It is the only way to an end, the only way out of this hell. Flush him out. Draw him to you. You make your own way because no one is going to carve it out for you, and no one is coming unbidden. Now let's be done with it. _

He stood, wiping his face across his sleeve and gathering himself into the straight, collected stance of the soldier. Inhaling deeply, he cleared his mind and took in the scene before him. He was towering over her body.

His body.

His first body.

He sized her up, deciding which way he was going to lay her out. This all would be done with great care, just for him. Just for Sherlock. He would craft for him a scene that would beckon him to it. Was this the proof that he needed? Proof that he was wrong, that this could never work, this sudden severing of all ties? This was how far he would let this go, this façade of death and departure? Well, the game he played was John's demise, and now he would prove him wrong. This time, the one and only time perhaps, he was so very, very wrong.

He'd left him brutally, here alone again in the world he didn't fit into. They had fit together though, hadn't they? In finding each other they had found themselves; two oddities that made a perfect machine, fluid in its functionality. And now there was one. He was a broken half; a cup that had split in two - emptied, and without purpose. But he refused to be someone who was without consequence, someone who was easily tucked away in the back of a drawer somewhere. He had lived life in the shadows, as a shadow, and decided long ago he would never go back to it. He was awake now and this was him refusing to sleep. This was him controlling the nightmare. This was his rebuttal, and it was going to be indisputable. It was his gift to the most brilliant man alive.

Sherlock was alive, he knew it in his very bones. He had been catching glimpses of the man in the coat for months now, always in the distance, easily lost in a crowd, always far enough away to make him second-guess his own perception. But he was finished with guessing. He was ready for answers, and he would have them. He would not let the wool be pulled over his eyes complacently like the thousands of sheep in this city had. He was not one of them. Sherlock knew that. He should have known better.

She was easily moved and edged about, her limbs still warm and limp as if she were sleeping, but she would not be waking this time. He experimented with her a little, turning her head, straightening her clothes. He crossed her arms behind her back, causing her breasts to heave and her head to tilt back slightly. He liked the effect and it gave him an idea. He made his way across the almost pitch-black box car to retrieve one of the bags of sand that were left against the far wall god knows how long ago. The burlap was brittle and tore as he moved it. Much of the sand was lost in a trail leading to the body. He cursed. He didn't want a mess and he didn't have time to worry about cleanup. His little episode had taken too long and day would be breaking soon.

He decided it was better that the bag was half emptied once he had hoisted her upper body onto it. She would have looked too unnatural if it were any higher. As it was she ended up looking like she was leaning off the edge of a pillow, as if maybe in the act of making love, her back perfectly arched, her arms beneath her, exaggerating her breasts, her head tilted backwards like she was looking behind her.

And so she would be.

He turned her to face the door of the car so that whoever was to pry it open next would find its occupant staring at them, upside down with her open-mouthed, wide-eyed expression. He cascaded her hair around her, combing it out with his fingertips. He wanted to take the gloves off. He wanted to get in there, to feel and paint the scene with his bare hands, but he resisted.

"Better to err on the side of caution" he heard the voice of Mycroft in his head. And he had. He had been very careful. He knew he would not have to plant evidence to be found. He knew the man who couldn't resist a good sadistic killer would need no help in finding him. He knew he would figure him out in the blink of a brilliant eye. He was depending on it. And what would he think of this when he did? How would he handle this slap in the face, this refusal to lie back and fade away in the forgotten?

He was happy he had taken this one. She wasn't pretty in the face at all- a whore aged beyond her years by her lifestyle and addictions maybe, but in her final pose she was brilliant. Her cheaply died auburn hair that was rooting out blond formed a perfect arch around her. It was a striking touch.

He crossed her legs at the ankles and stood back, pressing his finger over his lips in thought, then he sighed.

"Well that's no good, is it?" He said out loud to her, and she did not respond.

He turned around, looking for something, anything that would give him some inclination of how he should finish her. What was missing? Again he turned. What was he missing? Sherlock Holmes would make a brilliant psychopath. The thought thrilled him. He wouldn't miss a thing.

"Work with what you have, John. Put to good use the things around you and try to involve that instrument between your ears if at all possible." Now it was _his_ voice he was hearing. That demeaning, seductive croon that he missed so terribly. It went through him like electricity and he closed his eyes with the pleasure of it.

He finally found himself staring at the only thing there was in the car besides the occasional rusted bits of metal that littered the floor. There were the sandbags, four more of them. He would be doing some more propping, it seemed.

He was much more careful in his maneuvering of the remaining bags then he had been on the first go, and managed to get them all into position with just a slight tear in the last one when it was hoisted into place. Two under each leg. He had placed them under her ankles at first but when he backed up to take her in it didn't sit well with him and he ended up sitting on the rough, grimy floor of the car and pushing them up under her further using his feet. She had two bags propping each bent knee up now, so she was ready for sex or an exam. It was disturbing enough to wrench his stomach, which was perfect. A pretty little package for his friend with an appetite for the macabre.

"Looks like the work of a serial madman, doesn't it?" he asked her. Then he nodded to himself, quite pleased. "He'll love it."

She was perfect. Rigid and fluid, like a photo snapped of something in motion. The heavy line of sand that led from the edge of the car to the center where he'd positioned her was the only thing out of place. He strode over and swept at it with his feet, spreading it about with his shoes, but it did little more than leave streaks across it, like drawing on the beach with a stick.

Fucking brilliant.

He was down on his knees in a flash, scooping the sand from the wall towards the body with his gloved hands, sweeping every last grain forward as best he could. It was a time-consuming task, but he was sure of the importance of it. It was something he had almost missed.

He spread it as evenly as he could in a curving sweep on her left side. In it, in ornate, scrolling letters, he wrote the capitols: S.H.

John tried to imagine what the master would do upon entering; what his beautiful, fierce eyes would focus in on first. What information would he be processing and how quickly would he be able to follow it back to him? Sherlock wouldn't be part of the investigation, of course. But he was sure he would see it, nonetheless. He had an idea that someone knew more than they were letting on about his whereabouts and he had an idea it was the man's brother, he just couldn't prove it. If he was right, however, then brilliant! Beautiful! He would see every last element of the case in perfect detail. He wouldn't miss a thing. If he was wrong, which perhaps he was, then his friend would be drawing his conclusions from television and newspaper articles and wherever else he could get his information, but both paths led to the same destination. Sherlock would find him. He would intercept him. He would have to stop him, because if he didn't, then this wouldn't. John was willing to go as far as was required to get to the end of this now. How much was the man in the coat willing to ignore?

The scene was set and John exited the stage. He pulled the heavy door shut until just a crack was left open. The place would be swept once the dogs were found dead. He could sit back and watch it unfold while he planned out his next move.

Home was inviting for the very first time. He bolted the lock and slid the chain into place and his entire being seemed to calm with the act of it. Immediately his clothes went in the wash, gloves and all, and he stepped into the shower. He relaxed against the back wall, letting the heat and water wash the dirt and sins away. He forced the girl and the images of the night from his mind. He couldn't let it get to him. Nothing could shake him now that he'd stepped over the line. He imagined instead yet another scenario of how the reunion would go between them - what would be said and what would be done and the decisions that would have to be made. He sank down to the shower floor and let the water stab at him from above. He kept his head down and the water stole the tears away. His chest ached as he murmured an answer to the question he imagined would be asked:

"Because I couldn't do it, I couldn't go on. God, I tried. I tried to trust that you knew what you were doing, but you were _wrong_."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

_I've really made my rounds today._

He raised an eyebrow and nodded his head to whatever it was Mycroft had just said. A few hours ago he'd paid a visit to Mrs. Hudson and watched her bustling around her kitchen, fetching him tea and biscuits and offering a plethora of other comforts, all of which he'd politely waved away as she chattered on about her new tenants, throwing him a side glance and lowering her voice whenever she had something particularly juicy to say. He adored the woman and still called on her regularly, and as usual he had stayed longer than he'd meant to.

This, however, sitting across the table from Mycroft-Mr. Government-Holmes and enjoying a casual lunch, was definitely not routine. The man had called him that morning while he was visiting the dear Mrs. Hudson. Since John was in the habit of turning off his phone while there, Mycroft had left a warm, if not slightly indifferent voicemail inviting John to join him for lunch at 2:00 pm for "a chance to catch up, as it were. I have thought of you frequently and would like to know that you are faring well and well, there's no reason why we should be strangers in light of all that has happened…. Anyway, you have my number, call and I will send a car." He thought it unlikely that Mycroft did anything casual for the pleasure of catching up with anyone and the message had struck him dumb. The instant the familiar voice filled his ear he was frozen where he stood and a dizzy, red fear had gripped him. The investigation had only been under way for five days. Was it possible he was suspect so soon? He'd been following the story, but the public was never privy to the real breaks in these cases. He began pacing back and forth, trying to decide what to do. Of course he should go, especially if he was under suspicion he should go. But what if he'd been wrong about the area not being under the city's watchful eye? What if he'd been caught on camera somewhere? The floor of his old flat creaked as he moved across it. What if the letters in the sand had served to focus the investigation? He'd had second thoughts about that one a bit too late, and vowed he would never be so bold again. What was he thinking? S.H. - obviously initials and obviously important to the case. He hoped they would think they were the initials of the killer, but what killer would be so stupid? Even one who lusted after fame would not wish to forfeit the game so easily. So what did they think they meant? Whatever it was, he hoped against all hope that they were wrong. He would be better next time.

_If there is a next time. _

He walked out the fear, going over and over again what this sudden interest from Mycroft could be about. If he was hiding Sherlock then it was a bit more likely that John had been discovered. But if that was the case then… what, he was sending his brother like a dog to sniff him out? That couldn't be right. He was sure Sherlock would come to him in person. He would have questions. He would have to understand.

_The man who cannot stand to not understand. _

There was no way he would be able to sit back and let this unfold, watching John be taken down while he played dead.

Was there?

_No. _

He stopped, mid-stride, put his feet together and straightened his stance. No matter how powerful the man was, Mycroft was not Sherlock Holmes. The investigation had not even had the need to branch out far enough to include him. Not officially, anyway. He knew Mycroft saw all and heard all but he had to trust himself. He had been careful. This was not the end. He knew how this would end.

_It ends with Sherlock Holmes staying my hand._

He finally called to accept.

So here they were, across from one another, two men that had been respectively broken in both spirit and reputation over the last few months. John was collected now. He knew how to don the well-learned airs he always put on these days. He had put the things that terrified him out of his mind and was back into singular focus. He wanted to know if Mycroft knew anything about his partner feigning death. He tilted the wine glass towards his lips and let the red liquid slide into his mouth and under his tongue, relishing the feeling of slowing down. This was his third glass, and his nerves were finally ebbed to the point of being able to not care that this man sitting across from him would eventually be hunting him.

But the man was just chatting, going on about some drone new recruit's fumbles and antics and John was smiling, nodding, snorting out a laugh when necessary, but watching. Mycroft was a Holmes, after all, and that was nothing to be taken for granted.

He knew he should be asking pointed questions. He knew he should be gaining information himself and trying to feel out a weakness in the man, if indeed he had one besides his brother. He needed to know if he was aware of Sherlock's whereabouts. If Sherlock had needed to disappear there could not be a better accomplice than Mycroft Holmes, who had both the means and the methods to make someone do just that. He'd said as much on one of their cases, in fact. So why, after all the likelihood of this man being the key to finding Sherlock did he still have such reservation?

_Because Sherlock wouldn't have sought his help. _

He would have had a plan, a brilliant one, but it never would have involved Mycroft. Before the incident there would have been no time for plotting between the two of them, either; his downward spiral had been ruthlessly swift.

The man across from him reminded him of Sherlock. Not the similarities, though they were there, if one only knew the two of them well enough to recognize them. It was the fact that he had been so much a part of their little world. Just like Mrs. Hudson had been, though the distinct memories and emotions that were associated with her had become a sort of poetic misery for him, one that he'd chosen to endure over and over again, whenever time permitted or he'd simply needed to reconnect to his despair. This, though. This was a fresh recall of different elements of Sherlock Holmes, ones he had not been exposed to for quite some time. He sat there, stiffly, as smiling and serene a picture as he could hang over the wall that was holding back the storm.

Mycroft smiled, finally quiet, finally spent on the oh-so-ordinary stories he'd obviously rehearsed into some form of normal chit chat to set the tone of their meeting. Now he stared at him with that head-tilt grin, the all-knowing, smug, but teddy-bear friendly look that John learned long ago gave no real indication as to what sort of dangerous intelligence was lurking behind it.

"So how have you been, John, really?" The question, coupled with that endearingly innocent face seemed sincere enough. At least four possible responses flashed through his head, all much more accurate than what he finally said.

"Fine." He was nodding. "I'm fine. Thank you." He took another drink and Mycroft eyed him while he reached for his own glass.

"Are you still working at the hospital?"

"Clinic, yes." _But you know that_. "Part time. They're very understanding about… scheduling preference."

Mycroft swirled the wine in his glass. "The requisites of the writer." He looked thoughtful. "So how is the book coming along?"

"Oh, good, yes. Um…. It's a bit more involved than I anticipated but it's coming along nicely I think. I'll have to wait to see in the end, really."

"I'm sure you won't have to worry about finding a publisher. Your blog is popular enough, number one on any respectable chart. I know, I've tracked it. That's got to tell them something about your ability to pull in readers."

John poked idly at his food. "I haven't been to the site since… well, since there was no longer a reason to update it."

"Really?" Mycroft raised his glass again. "Because it's still gaining followers, even in a… what, six month absence? I'd say that was good writing."

"I'm sure it has very little to do with the narrator. People are still following it because they want more bits to add to the scandal. They won't get it from me."

"This book… it's a memoire, is it not?" Mycroft looked confused.

"No, it's not. It's a work of fiction."

"Really?" he said with a little too much candor. He was disappointed.

They sat in silence for the next short moments. It felt like years before Mycroft picked up the dialogue again. The subject was his Anthea. She had recently fallen in love with a lad from Devon and he was worried he may have to find a new personal assistant soon.

"Of course, it will be next to impossible to replace her. Her training was extensive." He chewed, swallowed. "Grueling, really."

John smiled down at his plate. He thought of the oblivious girl in the back of the car who seemed to live on her phone. He found it hard to believe she had actually been trained. They were interrupted briefly by the waiter who took their plates and inquired about dessert.

It was always the little things that brought the world down he thought. It was easy to be logical about your armor. He knew this was Sherlock's brother, for instance, so he could arm himself against the recognition of those little similarities he'd noted. He had armed himself against the inevitable dance around the elephant in the room, the questions that couldn't be asked outright, but would be hinted at. He had rehearsed his answers until he could recite them, unfeeling. But when Mycroft's eyes, no, entire face lit up upon seeing the waiter bringing his dessert to the table and he'd kept on talking but had not been able to take his eyes off of it until he took that first bite… that hurt. It hit him square in the gut and it physically hurt. First the twitch of a smile in the corner of his mouth, then his eyes watered with the ache in his center. He'd learned to shut this off in public. No tears would fall here. He brought his wine glass to his lips and blinked them away with the anger that he'd been caught off guard. The man across from him continued to talk between bites of obviously delightful cheesecake, as John was trying to block the unrelenting influx of Sherlock Holmes in his head. How many times had they shared a knowing look between them at the expense of this oblivious man? How many times had John relented and joined Sherlock in outright laughing at him despite himself? If only he was here to notice the delight spread across his brother's face he would offer one of his merciless jabs about his weight or obsession with food. He would be his anti-social, insulting, blunt, gruff, ill-mannered self and John would reprimand him like he always did, be the polite one like he always was, and then share a sideways glance and a grin with the man who knew him better than anyone had ever cared to…

Fuck.

John looked out the window. It was a street view, not a beautiful street, either. For the feel of the place you would think they'd invest the money to wall it in and hang some beautiful piece of art there. He liked the clash of the busy, gritty outside with the elegant, lazy inside, though. It was distracting.

"John?"

He turned to Mycroft, eyebrows raised. He'd asked him something, hadn't he?

"Sorry?"

Mycroft smiled and repeated himself "Have you thought of a name for your book?"

"Oh, yes, sorry I was just…" John shook his head and formed a polite smile again. "Fallen. The book… It's called Fallen. It's a mystery."

Mycroft nodded. "I love a good mystery. It's at least loosely based on your history with Sherlock then." It wasn't a question. "That's hardly escapable. I've heard that writers are most comfortable writing what they know."

John disliked the assumption, maybe because it was a little too accurate. "No, actually…Not at all."

_It's based on my future with him._

Mycroft looked slightly put off, but this look changed quickly to… what, sympathy? "Well, never mind, whatever it's about I'm sure it will be well received. All this time I was sure it was a memoir about my little brother and his army doctor friend and their adventures. 'Anthea,' I'd say, 'when that book comes out we'll have a new source of funding to secure.'"

John laughed. "Aren't your means already bottomless, Mycroft? Or is there some new governmental crisis the public hasn't been informed of?"

Mycroft's brow creased. "Nothing too new, no. I'm sure the public is well enough informed about our shortcomings. Bottomless resources?" he huffed. "No, I have to write a tome of explanations in order to get the fundamentals these days. But…" he raised his glass again "one does what one must to go on."

John stared at him. How absolutely true that statement was. He raised his glass to him solemnly in response.

"To what we must do to go on." He said, and their glasses clinked together.

Ten minutes later the plates had been cleared, they had waved away the offers for refills, Mycroft had sent back his card with the check, and John was still clueless as to what had prompted this luncheon. He wasn't as uneasy now, though perhaps that was the wine, and he thought maybe this really was just an attempt of Mycroft's to reconnect with someone who knew his brother for who he really was. They hadn't talked about him at all, really, but there was a feeling of camaraderie one had with others among the elite few that were close to Sherlock Holmes. They had both seen the battlefront. They had both witnessed the massacre.

It wasn't until the car pulled to a stop in front of his flat that John suddenly had an overpowering urge to reach out to Mycroft. The man surely had his own demons to battle in the wake of his brother's fall. He wished he could sit down with him again, in a pub this time, with real drinks and loud noises where their walls could be breached and they could just talk. _Really_ talk, like real people… Like real friends. He wanted to, but he simply took the man's outreached hand and shook it. A little warmer, perhaps, than he would have an hour ago, and then he got out of the car.

With a nod Mycroft had urged the driver on and was gone, John looking after him until the car was lost around the front of the building and he was left alone in his silence.

He ate his dinner late, having done nothing but stare at the floor in front of his easy chair for hours. He was thinking of his Sherlock. His Sherlock. While it had been developing, their relationship had been like nothing he'd ever experienced with anyone. He'd had an uncanny amount of respect for the man and his intellect, yet felt protective of him, as if he were an overactive child running about with no sense of self preservation. He had fallen in love with him, he knew that now.

Why now? What hell to suffer the loss of someone you loved, but to have them torn away from you before you were brave enough to admit how you felt about them? That was a torment he could not endure. But he loved him. It felt so affirming to think it, to say it to himself. He'd finally come to terms with it. It was that or the gun he kept pulling out of the drawer. He decided as he stared at it one night that there was a reason far more potent than the death of a dear friend that was pushing him into the depths of this descent. He understood, when he picked it up off the desk in front of him and felt it's weight and it's smooth, cold certainty that this was a pain that was far deeper than the loss of a loved one. This was far deeper than the wounds he had suffered watching his friends and fellow officers die in combat and under his care. This was the loss of himself. This was unbearable because in him he had found the only reason he would ever need for living. He was desperately, madly, completely, wholly, and insanely in love with Sherlock Holmes. The hard knuckled honesty he had allowed himself in that moment broke him, and he cried because he loved him, not because he was gone. He cried because he didn't want to die. Death was uncertain. In life there were still bits of him, pieces he could gather together and a presence he could summon. He still spoke to him at night in the dark. Now he needed to tell him this. He needed to let him know with no doubt or courtesies that he was in love with him.

He wasn't sure what the chances were. He'd seen his body. He'd looked into his dead eyes. He'd seen the color of his beautiful blood. The only thing he knew was the man was a genius, capable of things that no human being should be, and that he had the most intense feeling he wasn't gone. The penetrating sense of him in the world was what got him out of bed every day. That, and he thought he had seen him. Glimpses, only, but upon turning around sometimes he had caught sight of a man in a coat. Not Sherlock's coat. That coat was in the grave with the man they buried. This was a puffy green thing, nothing his friend would ever wear. _But that's the point, isn't it?_ By the third sighting the man had traded in the green coat for a dark blue windbreaker and white ball cap. But even at the greater distance he was hanging back John had recognized him. Same height, same gait, same man.

_You can't erase all of you my dear._

He ran straight for him, shoving people out of his way when he had to, not even heeding their words shouted at his back as he thrust forward, determined not to lose him. The man disappeared though, as quickly as Sherlock Holmes could have.

After that, of what he saw he could no longer be sure. He found himself looking behind him always, surveying the people at the farthest visible distance for any familiarity. He wished he hadn't run at him. He wished he'd thought it through and come up with a better plan to confront him, but he wished these things and much more like them every waking moment of every day and it didn't do any good. Sherlock was still gone, and that was something that had to change. He was either in hiding, which he would have to draw him out of, or dead in a grave, where he would soon join him.

There were little things that had lead up to his love for Sherlock. No. Not lead up to it really, but things that had confirmed it over and over again. The feelings had always been there, just never addressed. Every time Sherlock was close enough to touch he'd wanted to do just that. He found himself making excuses to get closer to him whilst making it look like an accident. Stepping around him in the kitchen, brushing against his arm while reaching over him… Sherlock never responded. He had not required him to. His silence was more of a response than any other could have been. Sherlock Holmes noticed everything. For him to never acknowledge or comment on Johns apparent need to get closer and closer to him said that he was fully aware of what was going on all along. He knew before John even knew and that made his heart ache. What could he do now but ache?

It was time to write again.

For the next few days he busied himself mulling over maps and old newspapers and the musty volumes of detective novels he had packed home from various second hand stores months ago. He was planning again. He'd already narrowed down the area, and that, truly, was the hardest part. He'd found an abandoned building in a questionable neighborhood swarming with plenty of drugs and prostitution. He'd caroused the area at least ten times in his car and twice again, more thoroughly, on foot. There were scatterings left by hobos and, very likely the meetings of prostitutes and fares, but there were four stories and plenty of rooms and he would have no trouble finishing the task without being caught, he was sure. No one knew about the car. He kept it hidden in a storage locker far enough away from his flat to be of no good use to him until he really needed it. Very nondescript, an old brown thing from the eighties that still had life enough to give, he only ever used it when absolutely necessary. This would be one of those occasions.

He'd been approached by many streetwalkers looking for a fare and there had been several young men among them. He thought it might be easier. Taking out a man he had done before. The woman was his first, though, and she still haunted him at night, how she had kicked and slammed her feet against the metal floor of the box car over and over, the sound resonating loud in his head and all around him for so long. Still that sound woke him up at night. Her face was always staring at him, horror-stricken and purple. He had been disturbed by her fear. That was what troubled him at night these weeks past. The look on her face when she was first deprived of air, not the model of horror he had left at the scene to be found. Bodies he could handle. They were just dead weight. Whatever had possessed them was gone and there was nothing holy left in them, save what the living imposed. So it had not bothered him at all to pose her, to degrade her after death in that way. That he could live with. It was part of the plan, part of the set up. It wasn't like it was him doing it, anyway. He didn't get his kicks out of it or anything for Christ's sake! Not like Lem did.

Lem Owens was the antagonist in his story. He was also the protagonist. Mycroft Holmes had never been so right. This book was all about what John knew. It was no mystery. There were no detectives, no court, no good guy vs. bad guy points of view, and no punishment for the villain. The villain was the hero, alone and in agony and sick with anger and the need for revenge. Lem Owens had fallen, and the book was simply his story as he moved forward in his tragedy and despair. He was being hunted, but by what had not yet been determined. Friend or foe? Love or loss? Life or death?

The boys in this new area were not simply runaways. The ones that had come up to his window were obviously high and covered with marks and looked as though they'd crawled out of the bowls of hell. He would have no trouble finding the second martyr. And this time, blood. Sherlock Holmes loved blood.

He would have it, and plenty.


End file.
